


Grapes

by takeasmallbite



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M, drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takeasmallbite/pseuds/takeasmallbite
Summary: Drunken Sherlock is inspired to make a move.





	Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write adult content, so this is probably as close as we'll get to that. This will also be the last drunken Sherlock fic for minute. Got drunk before I sat down to write this for that extra element of... drunkenness. 
> 
> Check me out at marvelandlock.tumblr.com
> 
> Edit 8/9/20: I hope y'all realize how incredibly weird it is to me that more than a thousand people have read this piece that I wrote on a whim one night. Thanks for this, loves.

John’s sitting in his chair, and I am on the couch, wallowing in my drunkenness.

The whole world feels new when I am drunk. I hate that it takes alcohol for the world to feel bright and fresh like this.

I can still taste grapes on my tongue. Blood red grapes. Fermented and corked.

I roll over, and I can see him sitting in his chair across the room. He is the most wonderful person in the world, soft and kind and gray. My lips are numb, but I don’t really care about feeling  _ my _ lips. I want to feel  _ his. _ My limbs are weak, and I want him to make them  _ weaker _ . It’s odd having these thoughts but feeling no embarrassment. Maybe I can think these things sober without the burden of feeling ashamed someday. I usually try  _ not  _ to think about these things.

He is ignoring me. He knows I drank too much. He knows he’s had too much as well. He won’t admit it, but I  _ know _ . Subtle differences in his posture. His breathing has slowed. There is some pink in his cheeks. I wonder if he knows his own tells. I want to go over to him.

I stand, swaying a bit. I want him. I want to know every inch of his person. Even if I did make I move, the fog of moscato is too thick. I will forget it. I don’t want to forget.

I wish that I was lucid enough to remember it all.  


I do not wish to be lucid more than I want him, though.  


He had beer. I had wine. We are different in that way. He is the everyman, and I am not. I like my drunkenness to cost too much and to taste too sweet. He likes his to taste like dying and cost about as much as dirt. I love him for that. Everything that makes him average makes him so special to me. I could have any wine-drinker in the world, but here I have the everyman, always within arm’s reach. I could have expensive. I could have posh. Instead, I have John, and I love that more than anything in the world. He treats me like a human.

I am anything  _ but _ the everyman. I will taste like fruit, and he will taste like hops.  


I very slowly walk toward him, unsure of whether I can manage to stay upright, and he looks up at me. I am far more intoxicated than he is, and though I am unsteady on my feet, I’m sure in my mind. He looks concerned as I teeter toward him. It’s nice to have someone to worry about you when you’ve had too much to drink. It’s nice to have someone to worry about you.

“John,” I breathe, standing over his chair. He looks up at me, his eyes soft in the dim light.  


He blinks back at me, laptop open on his lap. He’s writing. Maybe it’s about me. Maybe he’s decided to tell all the fans of his blog how Sherlock Holmes looks drunk.  


There is something in his eyes, some emotion, but through the fog, I cannot truly tell what it is. Curiosity? Hope? I don’t know.

I don’t know anything.  


It’s the wine.

He closes the laptop. I think it’s hope after all. I think  _ that’s  _ what’s in his eyes. He stares at me with what I’ve decided is hope. If I thought it was anything else I would have turned around and headed to bed. But I see  _ hope _ , because that’s what I  _ want  _ to see.  


I want to kiss him.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” He asks, turning toward me, still seated. He sets the laptop on the floor.

I can only smile in return, since no words come to me. I love when he’s curious, because I am the person who can answer his questions. Any question. It’s my job.

He stands, now clearly worried for me. I blink hard, but the world around me swirls even more intensely when I close my eyes. If I look at him, the world doesn’t spin so much. I elect to keep staring at him.

“Sherlock, you  _ need  _ to go to bed. You’ve had too much to drink. I think it’s best if you rest.”

I chuckle, and I sway. I feel his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. His hands are warm. I melt a little because  _ he  _ is the one holding me. I feel myself smiling. I didn’t do that much before he turned up. Now I have the luxury of seeing someone who makes me smile  _ every day _ .  


“Sherlock, can you hear me? Taking care of you this late at night is a bit above my paygrade, you know,” he teases, smiling. I take a step toward him, and his smile drops a little, in favor of…nerves? Worry? I can’t tell.  


“John-,” I say, intending for more words to come out, but nothing comes. I can’t feel my lips. I  _ can  _ feel my heart. Pounding. And his fingertips, digging into my shoulders. When I am drunk, the world becomes a series of ill-defined sensations. Pleasant, but disorienting.

“Sherlock, seriously, you’re worrying me. I know you’re a lightweight, but good God, you really-” he says, but I don’t need to hear anything more.

I kiss him. I capture his lips with mine; I silence him with my tongue. My hands wander up to his face, and then down to his waist. I nudge him back into his chair and sit on his lap, tasting and feeling and grabbing. My limbs are still numb, but my lips are on  _ fire _ . My body feels like jello, but my mouth is aflame.

He reciprocates without waiting a beat. There is no moment of shock, only action. He grabs my shirt collar with ferocity I’ve only seen from him during a fight. I think of the time he shot a man for me. This is that intensity, but instead of on behalf of me, it’s  _ to _ me. His mouth is on mine. My hands are in his hair, on his chest. My knees dig into the chair cushion as he pulls me closer. I can’t breathe, I can’t see, but I can  _ feel _ , and that is all I need.  


He pulls my hair and I gasp, my hands clutching the front of his shirt. He smiles a little, and he sighs.

“Where’s that been that past few years?” He asks, pulling a little harder, forcing me to arch my back. Everything is blurry, but I can feel, and I  _ love  _ the way this  _ feels _ . Tugging and biting and stinging. The lights are low, but the feelings are so  _ bright _ .

“Hiding,” I whisper, pulling myself forward against the hand tugging me back. I want to kiss him again.

“Please tell me this won’t disappear after that wine stops fiddling with you,” he says, now pulling my face closer to his. I can see his smile in his eyes.

“I promise, it won’t.”

* * *

Come sunrise the next day, I found myself awoken by a good morning kiss.

And a smile. To my great pleasure, neither of us had forgotten  _ anything _ .


End file.
